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The Behemoth had not an inch of kindness in his him. At War, he taught young boys and girls how to be a fist and nothing less. Each part of The Nest had its function and one should never be as another; collective individualism. For The Sons, this meant learning and communicating only the language of war. They trained by day and by night were kept separate from the more irrational children, who leant on their Mothers.
Donal was endowed with even less charm. While, At Mother and At Peace, he had kept his brothers and sisters at one with torment, likening to the monsters scribed about in the tales of fear and often longing to play the void in game.
He would creep upon their beds at night and strangle a child with a grey bed sheet while they slept. When The Child finally broke free, thrashing and grabbing at their throat for air, he would be behind the cracks of light now entering the room, watching the panic unfold. Mothers would rush to their side and The Children would all huddle together in absolute horror. When The Children saw the grey sheet sitting on the floor with holes cut for eyes, their panic would subdue their rationale and they would stay awake for hours screaming hysterically and clutching to one another.
When they played their game of trust where one child would fall back into the arms of another, he would always let the child fall.
“Trust is not earned” he would say “by the closing of one’s eyes. Now get up and rejoice cause love is blind.”
It was when Donal was At War that he truly shone. He fought like a bear broken free from its cage. When he sparred with other Sons, his violence would only stop at the behest of several much larger Fathers who would spring upon him and pin him to the ground while he thrashed about screaming vulgarity at his combatant who nearly always lay still and unconscious in a mat of loose soil and dried blood.
In their study of physics; the mathematics of War, he excelled beyond all of his classmates. His mind was sharp and eclectic. He learned very quickly and in a very short time he became very dangerous.
In the class, The Behemoth took Donal aside. The rest of The Sons continued with their morning Kenpo. He lowered to one knee and kept one hand on the young boy’s shoulder. He had never attempted feigning empathy with another living being before and wondered for a brief moment if he was doing it right. Donal looked him in the eye apathetically.
“Tonight you will hunt as a Father. We collect at the fall of the sun. Prepare yourself” he said to the stern eyed boy.
“Yes, sir” replied Donal, still without any animation in his tone or any change in his being.
Before leaving the room, The Behemoth turned to the boy and said, “Displease me and I will make an example of you.”
The Behemoth left abrasively and Donal ventured back to his fellow Sons as they drilled threat scenarios. Some of the other boys and girls looked over to Donal inquisitively, wondering in open stare as to what a Grand Father could want of him; a mere ill-tempered, capricious twit. Other Sons maintained their discipline and albeit aware of the happening, chose instead to focus on their counter-strikes.
The Sons trained and sparred through to the late afternoon. When they were done, five of the boys approached Donal in a semi-circle. They were much older than he and of much larger size. Donal was very small for his age, but his knowledge of his body far surpassed even the eldest of the Fathers. Thus when the five boys approached him aggressively pushing their chests out and endeavouring to force him back against a wall, Donal did nothing but calculate silently in his mind, the greater part of which, sub-conscious.
The biggest Son, of seventeen years and maybe four times Donal’s size stepped forward and thrust a finger into his chest.
“You’re not with the fairies any more, boy. What did he want with you?” he asked.
Donal said nothing. He simply looked at the boy and in his peripheral sight, at those in his wake.
“You think you´re fucking special” yelled the biggest boy, this time thrusting forward to grasp at Donal’s neck.
Donal parried the boy’s hand, gripped the back of his wrist, pulled his elbows to his side, pivoted his left leg, flipped him onto his back, twisted slightly and broke his wrist. The boy screamed in agony, writhing on the floor while Donal quickly returned to a striking stance.
The other boys backed away immediately. All had subscribed to the courage of the biggest boy who was now rolling back and forth holding a floppy limb and crying commiserably. Donal stepped over the boy and into the change rooms where he ran a cold shower and dressed into his black attire.
Donal had only been studying as a Son for a short period, only weeks to be exact though there was something in him that stood to account. His ability to adapt and supress made him the perfect weapon and his absence of emotion made him the ideal prodigy; sufficient to one day take over from Marcos and lead the Collective into the Forever New Dawn.
Donal thought nothing of this as he strapped on his black boots. In his mind he envisioned an orange sky; the new dawn breaking over The Collective. This was all that the boy ever envisioned. Until sleep stole him away, he was forever At One, At Being and At War. He finished changing and walked over the fractured Son still rolling about on the floor.
Nobody had come to his aide and in all likelihood, nobody would. Donal stepped his tiny frame over the young boy’s body ignoring his plight and broke the class’ focus as he barged through the door. The other Sons for a moment were more like Children, in wonder and amazement.
Their Father was not impressed.
“Focus” he screamed as the class wandered into distraction.
Donal walked heavier; with a greater threat in every stride, making his way, up the spiralling staircase, to where the Fathers were now gathering.
A Rising Fall Page 17
